Workout
by SoCherryDarling
Summary: <html><head></head>Domestic Natasha running through her evening routine. ... wow that sounds lame... In other news, I suck at summaries...</html>


"Let me."

Natasha took the bags from the old woman and punched the code into the keypad, opening the door for her, and guiding her into the building.

"Thank you dear! So nice of someone to help... The tenants here are so surly, not at all like it used to be when I first moved in."

She smiled down at her neighbour and moved her over to the elevator. "Which floor?"

"Eight... Oh! You're not coming up dear? I'd love to offer you some tea."

Natasha smiled and shook her head. "I always take the stairs. Will you be alright getting your bags to your apartment?"

"Oh yes. I'm just across the hall. Thank you again, and dear... " She pressed a knarled hand to the doors as they tried to shut, smiling up at her. "Every time I see you, you're in black...that pretty hair and eyes, you should add some colour."

"Black's practical... but I'll bare it in mind."

No one ever took the stairs.

It had been one of the things she'd taken into account when she chose this apartment.

She jogged lightly up four flights and then back down again, repeating it four times before turning at the bottom and sprinting all the way up to the tenth floor.

Just part of her daily work out.

Always take the stairs.

Her apartment was at the end of the hall, the far window facing out towards the next building, exactly 12 feet away. She could jump across if she had to. She'd drop a little and have to hit the fire escape on the other side and then climb up to get to the roof of the other building, then there was a long drop on the other side, which she could walk away from if she was careful, landed just right, flex the knees, make her body fluid, tuck and roll, walk away.

Her home was simple, sparse even.

The kitchen and living area served as her work space.

A punch bag hung from the ceiling, treadmill in the corner, bar along the far wall, although she'd been teased about that.

Let them though.

Nothing tougher in this life than a ballerina.

If you can dance with feet that felt like they were full of glass, dance like your life depended on it, you could do anything.

Her toes had broken and set so many times it was unlikely she could break one now if she tried.

It was also good for her core.

She wasn't going to break from a punch to the gut.

So let them laugh.

She dumped her bag and stripped off her pants, kicking them towards the bathroom.

Sitting heavily on the floor, she wrapped her feet in bandage, flexing her toes slightly before going to the bar to warm up.

As she stretched, she watched herself in the mirror.

When had she started to look so stern?

There was a line between her eyes that didn't seem to fade now a day's, even though she found herself laughing more, relaxing almost.

She ran through all five positions, not so worried about grace, but poise, balance, control, those were things that came naturally. In the back of her head she could hear classical music played on a slightly out of tune piano as she ran through the exercises, a ghost of a memory.

Ghosts can't hurt you.

Finishing, she picked up the rest of the bandage and wrapped her hands, heading to the punch bag.

She started methodically, settling into a rhythm, then speeding up, three sharp jabs with her left hand, bounce back on her toes, three with her right, keeping it up until she was blinking against the sweat, then stop, grabbing a water on her way to the treadmill for a 3 mile cool down, an easy paced jog so that by the time her phone chirruped at her, telling her the workout is over, her breathing is back to normal, her muscles lose and warm.

Standing under the shower, Natasha, prodded at a shallow gash on her side and frowned.

Jerk had cut her and she hadn't noticed.

One of the many reasons she wore black, Mrs Grocery lady, and not florals.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, she dabbed iodine on it, checking that it truly was shallow enough not to need stitching. She was quite capable of doing it herself, but she wasn't neat.

Satisfied that it needed no more than a strip of gauze, she pulled on clean underwear and a shirt, and made her way back into the kitchen for food.

Clint was sat on the counter eating cereal.

She raised an eyebrow at him and sighed, then signed -_Did you take the last of my granola?_

He nodded apologetically. -_I'll get you more..._

_-Like last time? Or the time before that?_

He grinned and shrugged.

_-You staying for dinner?_

Clint nodded and hopped off the counter to go shut the window he'd come through.

He was the only other person who could get through her window, but then, he'd been here when she'd installed the alarms, and it was too late to start getting exasperated with Clint now.

They still signed together a lot, even though he could hear perfectly well now. Natasha liked to sign because she was 99% sure the place was bugged. She'd helped Fury bug everyone else's home, she wasn't naive enough to think he hadn't done the same to her, so she liked the privacy signing allowed, even when they were just talking about cereal.

Truthfully though, it was mostly habit when they were alone, to lapse into silent conversation, and she liked it, the fact they shared this. Even when in company they often joked to each other across the room with a movement of fingers, grinning like school kids.

_-Movie? _

She nodded, gesturing towards the only other room in the apartment. Her bed was pushed up in the corner to allow space for a tiny living area, a couch, coffee table and the TV, and as she ladled noodle soup into bowls, Clint went through to find something to watch.

As she sat down with him, handing him his bowl, she kicked his feet off the coffee table and gave him a look, and he returned it with a pout, then smiled and started eating.

She ended her day curled up on the couch, her head resting on Clints lap, his hand lightly laid on her hair.

They both knew why he came here, why he appeared in her home, eating her cereal and watching her movies.

It was so she could sleep.

Because every so often, he noticed the dark smudges under her eyes growing larger, and he knew she was lying awake all night afraid to sleep in case she dreamed. And in her dreams she was unmade again, and again, and again.

Erased.

But she could sleep like this, knowing he would watch her for the night, sit with her watching crappy movies and stroking her hair.


End file.
